


Lucky Man

by Lemon_Rock



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, as always, cousin incest if you squint, i like seeing him suffer, i like writing DT17 Gladstone off as an emo baby, sue me, uh, unedited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28775892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lemon_Rock/pseuds/Lemon_Rock
Summary: Luck, like many things, is merely a concept.
Relationships: Donald Duck/Gladstone Gander
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	Lucky Man

**Author's Note:**

> it's been a literal yEAR! I'M SO SORRY
> 
> I rushed the ending cuz i really needed to post this before i cringed at my old writing style too much. duilich!

Luck.

Everyone had their own definitions of what luck was, could be and what it could become. Everyone proposed their own unique opinions on how it worked and what should be done when properly followed through. Everyone had a thought or something to say on the matter nevertheless, dry sympathies for those unluckier than them, jealous scoffs to those in better fortune. Everyone wanted to be lucky, but it was always lucky in what they perceived to be the most serendipitous.

That notion didn’t exclude Gladstone Gander, known infamously as the luckiest duck in the world, blacklisted in several casinos he’d never thought to visit, banned from misfortune-thriving destinations like Vegas, and hated most everywhere he went.

People envied him, but it was always in the negative, always so cold and virulent.  _ ‘Look, there he goes again, boasting his luck about, thinking he’s better than everyone,’  _ their stares would scream—when not hushed with just as much venom—attempting to pop the overgrown ego everyone perceived him to have; the overgrown ego he chose to put on display for them.

He’d wave them off, say something snide or flash a charming little grin that the world had never known him to be without. He wore that smug like a hedonistic mask. A mask that, sometimes, even he didn’t realise he was putting on. A mask that had gone through more wear and tear than he dared to remember when or why it’d all begun. A mask large enough to dual as both his emotional and mental shield.  _ ‘How lucky of you to make such an observation.’  _

How lucky of them not to dig deeper than the surface.

At least they weren’t being fake. He could handle blatant disrespect and sour envy from complete strangers, but what tired him most was when they got him to open up, to befriend them and hold them dear, just for said ‘friends’ to walk out on him as soon as it’s made clear that his luck was not contagious or transferrable or beneficial to them in the slightest.

“Mr. Gander.”

“Alfred.”

“It’s Duckworth, sir.”

“Oh, I know.” The Gander replied with a smug smirk, not that the butler could see it through the intercom, but the tone was carried across nonetheless.

“Hmm. And your purpose for today’s visitation, sir?” Duckworth asked, attempting to get straight to the point, as so he could carry on with the day’s work.

“Donald home?” He said, more of a statement than a question really.

The electronic gates didn’t hesitate to open after that, answering the Gander with the sound of metal scraping against paved flooring, obviously in need of oiling. He thanked the butler, not forgetting to slip in another pun induced nickname before being too far a distance away from the intercom to receive an unamused retort or sarcastic reply.

As soon as the quick chuckle had left his beak, Gladstone’s smile faltered. He hoped the kids weren’t home today. As much as he loved and adored the little scamps, their presence would only distract him from his initial purpose for coming over.

Huey would bombard him with so many questions and queries about how his luck worked, how old he was when he got or realised his good fortune, did his daily routine work around his luck or vice versa, since they hadn’t the time for such an interrogation back in Macaw. Dewey would ask him to test out a bunch of things his luck would save him from and how dangerous of an act he’d have to perform before his luck gave out on him. And Louie. Gladstone wasn’t really sure with Louie anymore. Last time he checked, the green cladded triplet was still upset by his terrible behaviour. Sure the half-goose needed saving, but that should’ve never been a reason to make the kid feel worthless. He didn’t need another pair of eyes judging him, metaphorically looking down on him like he was a child caught stealing from his mother’s purse. No, he needed nothing but what he came here for. A little one on one chat with Donald.

_ ‘He doesn’t want to see you’  _ His mind would yell at him, tempting him to leave Donald alone with his own problems—to leave himself alone with his own problems—to turn the sports car, that he’d won for being the one millionth customer at an auto-repairs store that he’d accidentally walked into, around and chuckle at the butler saying that, by some stroke of luck, his problem had been solved,  _ no need to bother the poor sap. He might still be asleep, it is noon after all,  _ he’d say, then drive off into the endless city stream passing green light by green light without so much as a glance at the traffic signals above him, all to end up somewhere distant, somewhere his luck would tell him was better than wherever he wanted to be, wherever he  _ needed _ to be.

It wasn’t like Donald really liked him anyway, sure he loved him, it was a familial guarantee, a promise that he was oh so fortunately born into, but, in the end, that didn’t really factor in on whether or not Donald had to like the gander as a person. Heck, he didn’t even like himself as a person. Somewhere along the line, through pointless travel and profound sleepless nights, Gladstone had realised just how much he’d lost himself in his overuse of his smug mask, that cocky exterior he was never without. 

The gander chuckled under his breath. When was the last time he’d ever really been himself enough to tell the difference? At this point in time, all he really was was an empty shell coated with gold, priced so highly that no one wanted to acknowledge that he was real, yet, whenever in view, was never not the main topic in conversation. 

Gladstone never really understood people when it came to their opinion of him. Tip of the iceberg was that they wanted what he had, but never him. That they hated what he was ‘blessed’ with, and that made them mad at him for being so ‘special’. That they basked in his rays of fortune like they were blacked out from anything else, acting like his luck didn’t matter to them. They cared about how terrible their lives were compared to his because they had to work for what they had, whereas he needn't lift a finger to make a living.

They never really cared about him, about his feelings and his opinions on what ‘fortune’ truly was, they never cared to see deeper than the surface, deeper than the mask he put up for them. And he didn’t blame them for that; he couldn’t. It was his fault they felt there was nothing else to look for in him anyway.

Gladstone was sure that he still had some time to turn the car around and make a dash for it, it’s not like he wasn’t just stalled in the middle of the driveway with his hands gripped to the steering wheel, letting his mind drift elsewhere. He shifted gears, sighing before checking his rear view mirror.

First mistake. 

He didn’t really need to check if there was anything behind the car. If he’d truly wanted to leave he would’ve just reversed out of the driveway and hooted at the intercom. No, some part of him  _ wanted _ to look back,  _ wanted  _ his luck to strike ‘unexpectedly’, hopefully, in a way that would prevent him from backtracking, in a way that anchored him temporarily grounded to McDuck Manor. Fortunately for that part of himself, that anchor was the worried look in Donald’s eyes as the two stared at each other through Gladstone’s rearview mirror. 

“Sit. Please.” Donald hushed, turning on the kettle behind him, the concern in his voice outweighing his usual incoherency. Did he always speak this clearly when he was distressed? Or was Gladstone just getting used to his voice so much that talking to him was like having a normal conversation, well, as normal as their conversations get.

“So, I see the boat's finally finished. How long d'you think it'll last before you have’ta get the tools out again?” The gander chuckled.

“Now’s not the time to play coy with me Gladstone,” The older duck sighed, rubbing at either side of his temples as he took a seat beside the anxiety wrecked gander, “Can you at least  _ try  _ to be serious,  _ for five minute _ s, so you can explain to my why, firstly, you left seven missed calls on my phone this morning, at 3AM  _ alone _ . Secondly, why you showed up here without calling Scrooge first, like you usually do. And thirdly, why you were, for at least fifteen minutes, spacing out in the middle of the goddamn driveway.”

Gladstone flinched. Fifteen minutes didn’t really seem that long to him anymore, but, he guessed, he stopped caring about things as trivial as time since before he’d escaped the House of the Lucky Fortune. In the beginning of it all, all he cared about was how much precious time he was wasting away being locked up in that hellhole of a building, how no one would notice he was missing because it was never like he kept in touch anyway, how countless hours were dissipating from his life. But, as inutile, useless time continued to waste away before him, he realised just what people meant by it being a concept of the mind; a construct. It helped keep people grounded. Helped keep them sane. But as the minutes faded into hours and the days blurred in with nights, Gladstone wasn’t really sure there was any reason for him to keep himself grounded, it wasn’t like his luck was keeping him sane, no, not when that was the root of his problems.

He ran a hand through his hair, a few stray feathers not failing to ease its way out and fluttering to the ground in such gentle motions that you’d swear Gladstone’s feather’s weren’t attached to his head. He didn’t notice it though, it’s been happening so often that it’d just become routine at this point, and because of this, he was afraid to go anywhere without his hat, in constant fear of finding a bald spot when passing by a store of mirrors or any reflective surfaces at that. Now that he thinks about it, he hadn’t really looked at a mirror for a while either. Not for this reason though, but maybe it was because he was… disappointed? He couldn’t really identify the feeling exactly, but all he knew was that it wasn’t a great one. It never was.

Gladstone chuckled softly, the melodic sound fading to an even softer sigh.  _ “How lucky of you to make such an observation.”  _ He whispered, more so to himself than to his dear cousin, of whom Gladstone had just realised had been staring at him patiently with a hand rested softly to his knee. His leg tensed at the realisation and Donald made no hesitation to remove the appendage, a crisp air overtaking the bare skin not long after. “Sorry.” He hushed, and Donald looked down at him with eyes that begged him to talk to about whatever was going on, eyes that told him that he was there for him.

And Gladstone hated that.

But he hated himself even more for hating that. That was his problem -one of them at least- that he couldn’t just accept the thought that there were people who cared for him, his problem was that he always looked at the negative side of everything; just like everyone did him. What a hypocrite.

“I’m sorry.” He said again, this time slightly louder than before, “I didn't–.” He paused, laughing unwillingly as he dry wheezed in whatever was his mind’s perception of crying. He wanted it to stop, he wanted to chuckle everything out and make a coy joke on the matter, leave and not return any contact with the duck for as long as need be, but here he was, fragile, broken, too tired to lift his defensive mask before his face and shield his aching heart, feeling just about close enough to have a panic attack in his cousin’s houseboat as his Uncle and nephews were out who knows where doing who knows what—probably having the time of their lives—while he made sick crying noises on an old yard-sale quality couch beside his older cousin.

Donald didn’t say a word on the matter though, only wrapping careful arms around the gander and engulfing him in a comforting, sort of sideways hug. Gladstone continued to sniffle and wheeze into the shirt of Donald’s sailor suit, to which the duck disgustedly encouraged, cooing the half-goose and stroking a calloused hand through Gladstone’s gelled curls, beak twitching downward as he noticed the bits of feathers that fell from the gander’s head.

Gladstone was stress moulting too, wasn’t he? Donald knew the feeling all too well.

Gladstone didn’t ignore the fact that Donald's hand was still stroking his hair gently. As much as he appreciated the gesture, the thought only made him cough out another sorry, one that was intended to be followed by a soft  _ ‘I wanted to talk to you sooner’,  _ but ended up as just a breathless smugness of  _ ‘I’m getting feathers all over your couch.’  _

Donald had merely chuckled along with the gander, knowing that getting straight to the point was nowhere near Gladstone’s general means of talking things out, but he’d decided he’d keep him smiling just long enough for him to eventually buck up and spit it out like sour milk.

“Hey, Donnie?” He hushed, not looking up at the duck.

“Yes, Gladdy?” Donald looked down at him with a smirk.

“Ew, don’t call me that!” Gladstone laughed, shoving his cousin’s thigh playfully.

“You called me Donnie first, it’s only fair.” Donald shoved back, smiling softly down at the gander.

“Thank you.” He sighed, raising his head finally.

“For what?”

“Being here for me and not being awkward about… this. I didn’t mean to break down on your cheap couch on what’s probably your only day off for the week.”

Donald scoffed, “My couch is  _ not _ cheap.”

“Sure it ain’t.” The gander said, sticking his tongue out through his smug grin, receiving another playful shove. He really did miss this, their playful banter, not the rageful sarcasm that was usually broadcasted around others, but that didn’t mean he prefered it over the taunts and teases they shared. It was just another one of the things he’d come to resent though, the fear of ruining what they had. Donald might not have been his favorite cousin, that’s for sure, but he was still special to him, and Gladstone didn’t want to lose that too.

“But, seriously, Gladstone, you know you can come to me with anything, right? And I’m always here if you need me. Even if you don’t really need anything, you can still come over and hang _. _ I could even call Fethry and we can go on road trips like we used to, Scrooge can handle the kids for a few days.”

“That actually sounds… that sounds good, Don, thanks.”

“Any time, cuz. So, you want some tea while we talk or would you rather prefer a movie? The kids are in Hong Kong so they’ll be gone a day or two.”

“Tea would be great, yeah. Oh! And those biscuits you usually serve with it too!” Gladstone added, his grin wide enough to scare a shark.

“I’ll have to see if the oven is working. Dewey tried to bake a cake the other day in celebration of his 100th successful treasure hunt or something.” Donald chuckled at the memory, crouching down in front of the oven, opening it up and intensively inspecting it.

Gladstone just sat there, watching him, wondering what he did to deserve such a person in his life. Someone who didn’t just want to hang out with him because they thought he could make them rich, or get lucky, not for sex or rewards of any kind, but just for the sake of  _ being  _ with him _ , _ for the sake of  _ caring  _ for _ him _ . Was this what luck was supposed to make him feel like? Make him actually feel like the luckiest person in the world, not for material objects like money, cars or VIP class cruises, but for the people who stuck around him to see him smile, for his family.

Donald was always more fortunate in that category than he was. It wasn’t like Gladstone could ever find someone who truly loved him for him when every person he’s ever been with had only ever used him for sex and other inconsequential nonsensicalities. He couldn’t raise a family with someone because who’d want to feel like the odd one out if Gladstone’s kin was ever born with his ‘blessing’? Who’d want to spend their days being ridiculed and labeled as the person who married into fortune for just that and nothing more? Who’d want to spend their life with someone as broken and worthless as he was? What had he to offer the world but his good luck and good looks? He had no special talents or a will for hard work, he had no job and no real house that he truly felt was home. Who’d want to spend their precious,  _ meaningless _ concept of time searching for, picking up and gluing back together the pieces of himself that even he was unable to find? Who cared enough about him to want to make themself a part of his fragile family tree?

All he had left was a fragment of the family he was born into, a shred of the family that made him feel like he could spend his days without a lover or a significant other. The small handful of family members that more or less resided at Mcduck Manor, like Donald and the kids, or in the facilities of McDuck Enterprises like cousin Fethry. The Duck side of the family, like Gus and Granny Elvira.  _ Daphne’s _ side of the family.

Why didn’t his dad’s side of the family ever put in any effort to see him?

“Well, good news and bad news.” Donald spoke up suddenly, pulling Gladstone out of his haze, head shooting up so fast he was sure he’d dislocated something, “Good news is that I can still make the biscuits for us, bad news is that it might take a while longer than usual.”

“Feel like throwing on a movie in the meantime?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Whatever you have.”

“Come on, you know what I have. Nothings changed since you were here.” Donald chuckled, taking out the utensils and ingredients needed for baking. He was smooth and rhythmic with his movements, showing just how much he knew his kitchen, just how much time he’d spent in it, “Check the box next to the TV. ‘Should still be in there.” Donald winked, throwing on his ‘ _ World’s Best Disaster Dad’  _ apron, the ‘Dad’ having been scratched out and replaced with ‘Uncle’.

Gladstone felt his heart race in his chest as he nodded back, getting up and crouching before the box of old, dusty disks. The faces his cousin made were all so entrancing to him, especially when he pulled adorable, spontaneous ones like this. It was atrociously unfair that the duck had that advantage over him. 

He found it a little disheartening though, that Donald would only look at him like that in private. Of course, he had no right to get emotional over such nonsensities, but it had never failed to make him feel like Donald was somehow ashamed to be seen playful with him.

Part of him wanted the world to turn their gazes away so that Donald had no problem being his best self around the gander. Another part of him wanted nothing more than to stand out beside the duck and let the world know of what he felt. But neither of those options held the raw adrenaline he felt when they went off at each other in public; all eyes on them as they strained to hold back cocky grins. There was something in it. Gladstone could feel it.

“Find anything yet?”

“Yeah… I mean, yes, yeah. ‘There a mattress or something I can get for us to sit on?”

“My couch isn’t that cheap, so we can just sit on that. And it doesn’t have any bugs if that’s what you’re worried about. Just get a blanket from my room and we can sit under it.”

Gladstone nodded frantically, gesturing that he'll go do that right now, using the curt motion to try and shake the blush off his face. “Any one?” He asked as he reached the small room which could be considered closet space. It was a wonder why he didn’t just move into the boys’ old room at this rate.

“Whatever’s the most comfortable for you.” The duck replied, placing the biscuit batter onto the oven tray, careful to keep them roundabout the same size.

Gladstone nodded his head, grabbing the first one he saw—a light blue color catching his eye as it hung halfway off the duck’s hammock—and rubbed the material between his fingers. It was pretty soft, fluffy to say the least, with one or two feathers poking out of the fabric. Gladstone glanced back at the kitchen, noticing how the duck sung happily, standing and waiting for the biscuits to bake. With as much willpower as he could muster, Gladstone turned his attention back to the blanket and away from his cousin's swaying tail, plucking one of the stray feathers off the blanket and sliding it into his blazer pocket. He had absolutely no idea why he did this, or even why he considered it, but even so, he blamed it on Lady Luck and insisted that she had plans for the feather and that it wasn’t just some weird new thing Gladstone was into.

“This one good?” He asked, raising the blanket up for his cousin to check. Donald nodded back, gesturing for the gander to drop it onto the couch.

After doing so he made his way to the kitchen, not hesitating to search through the duck’s kitchen cupboards. “What are you doing?” Donald asked, leaning over the gander’s shoulder.

“Popcorn.” Gladstone muttered from inside the top cabinet.

Donald replied with a soft ‘oh’ before checking up on the biscuits, probably trying to make sure they don't burn.

The biscuits were finished in the short time it took the popcorn to be made and the two were sitting gingerly on the coach as some old Western film—that Gladstone's never heard of before—played in before of them. Well, as gingerly as his nerves would allow him to sit. Really, with Donald sitting up against him, legs sprawled over his lap like they belonged there, and the blanket hugging them closer than he would've expected it to, Gladstone was lucky that his posture was the only stiff thing about him.

“I'm still surprised you haven't seen this movie. It's been around since we were kids.”

That made sense. Gladstone wasn't really big on movies as a kid. His father forbade it. But, even though his mother allowed him to do whatever he pleased, he preferred hanging around his cousins at the farm or at the mansion much more and, while Donald was much more… reserved then, Della was a riot to be around.

The movie played on and, while Gladstone didn't really understand or enjoy the plot or characters or terrible costume choices—seriously, who'd they hire for that? Clowns?—Donald seemed to be enjoying himself. So, as gross as it sounded, the content expression the duck sported was all that really mattered to Gladstone.

He felt lucky to be there—with the cousin you'd rather catch him dead than admit to being his favorite—on a couch, that he swore was recycled!, snuggled up like the world around him didn't matter anymore.

He truly was a lucky man.


End file.
